Some Nights
by FrostedFire
Summary: After Marius explains to her that their relationship did not involve love, Eponine was free. Finally free. Others, however, had more issues. Enjolras was struggling with control, Grantaire with Enjolras, and Courfeyrac with the knowledge that love was impossible. With the now-euphoric gamine about, things will turn upside down. Each chapter is a song from the album "Some Nights."
1. Intro

**Bonjour! I welcome you to the beginning of my hopefully short series- 'Some Nights'. Each and every chapter will be based off of one of the songs from Fun's album titled 'Some Nights'.**

**Enjoy.**

**-Fai**

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**_Some Nights Intro_**

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"This isn't love."

Her fingers cease the endless roaming of his face, pausing to rest on his prominent cheekbones. For a moment, she finds herself both shocked and confused, but forces herself out of those emotions, and back into the lust that clung to their skin. Their kisses were short, sweet, and obviously full of desire and need. They kept the male from responding, if only for a few moments. Why? Because he was dwelling upon his thoughts of the motions, the gesture that they had shared often, and attempting to figure out why he said what he did. Both bodies continue to press close, however, unconcerned. The sensual touch of her hands against his face flicked on a light, and the statement attempted to continue.

"This isn't love, 'Ponine," Marius Pontmercy insisted, though he continued to run his hands through her slightly damp locks, eyes staring deep into her own. Pausing like this, he pressed a soft, dainty kiss to her nose. "You know it is not. You want it even less than I do."

Éponine lifted a brow, and closed the distance between them, nipping at his lower lip in a playful way. Yes, the gentleman had announced his nervousness before they began, but she had doubted he would react like this. She thought he would make it a bit farther… Then again, she was without many clothes, pressed against him. Nerves. That's all this was.

Pauses. Silly, silly pauses. Her fingers twirled around his bare chest, and lips pressed kisses to his neck, his throat, and his ears. Butterfly kisses. "No, Monsieur, I fear you are wrong. I _do _want this, and so do you."

He looked taken aback by her statement, but held true to his internal pleading, and stopped. Just froze. His body touched the back of the bed, and, half-dressed, he shook his head at the girl. No, he couldn't go through with this. It was too… surreal. Besides, the time had simply been thrown at them. It meant nothing, this sudden attraction. Nothing. "I do not. Now I am sure of it. If you loved me, you would not force me."

At first, there was no response, because the female knew it was true. If she did care, then she would not have dragged him home, almost drunk from the day's activities. But she did, she forced him to trail behind her like a pretty little pup. With her arms crossed about her chest, Éponine sat across from him. Waiting, listening.

"This," he murmured with a gesture, not at all shocked at the gamine's outraged look. "Cannot be considered love. I can give you nothing in return!"

That was exactly what she feared. The continuation of unrequited love, though she had been set upon changing that. Oh, she loved him. Loved him more than life itself, more than anything that could come to mind. She risked beatings for him! Beatings!

It could not be. Her eyes widened a bit, but Marius continued, undeterred.

"You send me notes of love, you help me around. But I do not know… This is more of a platonic feeling, 'Ponine. I am sorry. I cannot go through with this."

The round orbs that plagued her sleep were observing for a response, and careful words touched the air. "But… I love you."

He shifted suddenly, so that the mattress of his bed deflated where she sat. There was a rift, a suspension, proof that she did not belong. Even the bedding was separating her from Monsieur Marius! And this only grew when he spoke, pity suddenly in his tone.

"Ah, that's where you are wrong." The urchin gasped, and curled into a ball. She couldn't believe it. She wouldn't. "You were never in love with me. You might be in love with the _idea _of me, like my good friend Monsieur de Courfeyrac stated. I have been kind, or I have tried to be, and you mistook that for love."

He knew precisely why. She received such little love at home, from her horrible father and strange mother. And little love could force one to seek out other ways. It wouldn't be surprising if the poor thing sent herself to the docks under the impression that they could give her some form of love. That was why he was so tender, so sweet.

"Marius!"

A brow lifted, and it was not the girl's. This time there was shock in the male's face. "There, that is the first time you have used my name without the proper 'Monsieur'! I have brought you to the light, and you have seen the world."

Enraged, Éponine stood, bouncing off the bed quickly. "To the light, indeed!"

Her harsh words followed her to the ground, where she picked up her ragged clothing, and quickly put them on. Her friend watched in slight confusion, and it was with her glare that he remembered their lack of clothing. A blush crawled about his cheeks, and he reached down for his own attire, only to pick up his cravat first. Couldn't start with that, could he? Another round of heat touched his face, but by then, the girl was storming out the room, her lips curled down into a frown.

"Good day to you, _Monsieur _Marius."

Perhaps an hour later, Azelma held her sister's hand as she sobbed, tears streaking down her face in runny rivers of salt. She had been doing so for about half an hour, and it was with patience that the girl finally asked what was wrong.

"What is wrong?" her elder sibling repeated, and turned her head, so that the drying tears made her hollow face seem ghostly. "What is not wrong? I am not good enough for Monsieur Marius; I am not good enough for anyone."

This, of course, was exactly what the younger Thénardier feared. She knew that her sister's obsession (which was how she had begun to refer to it) would not end well, and tears were the predicted outcome. The desperation in the other gamine's tone, however, was not expected. It caused her comforter to sniff softly, attempting to seem sympathetic.

"It surely is not that bad."

Harshness was held in the girl's eyes as she spoke next, the empty tone taking on a sing-song quality. "There are some nights I hold on to every note I ever wrote."

The love notes. She recalled them with an almost fond look, having memorized poems upon poems to impress him. Though they were known throughout the house, this was the first time that it had actually been mentioned. In a soft tone, they were explained.

It was an attempt to seem more feminine, done to please her special Monsieur into speaking to her more often. Both poems and stories had been sent, as well as simple letters. _'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?' _had been the first sonnet she sent to him. It received sweet response, and he had invited her out for a walk. The next had been a note of thanks, and the one after asked of his well-being. Each had been written in loopy writing, somehow dainty through her years on the street.

"Some nights I say f-"

"Éponine!"

"-it all, and stare at the bachelor himself."

This caused her sister to stare in shock, concerned with the words pouring into the air. She knew that the young woman was enthralled, but to that degree? Almost to the point of her destruction? Azelma would have to watch her for a few days, and make sure nothing stupid was done.

"Just waiting for catastrophes, imagine when they scare me into changing whatever it is I am changing into…"

How poetic. Should she write that down? How would that benefit, though?

"I am sorry, truly. He is not worth it, though! Think of 'Parnasse! He treats you well, yes?"

Her sister shrugged her shoulders, and her harsh voice took on a softer quality, voicing in a careful statement of her confusion and terror. What was she to do, now that she had declared herself finished with Marius Pontmercy?

"And you have every right to be scared," the child whispered, and wrapped her arms about her best friend, her older sister.

All of a sudden, Éponine whipped back, shocked. How could she stay, this sibling, while she was breaking apart? Wildly, she stood, and backed into a corner of the small room, into the very spot that she first found that she could observe Marius from her own living space. "And you! Why d'you wanna stay?"

Confusion caused the littlest rat to twitch her nose, a rabbit facing a wolf. Oh, how her sister resembled a wolf at that moment. Rearing up, showing her teeth. Her rags seemed to morph to her, at that moment, pressing against her person as a second skin. Papa would be proud of her then, hands raised to smack her sister. Daring, watching, waiting.

"Oh my God! Have you listened to me lately, 'Zelma?!"

Sadly, she had. And the young girl had to come to the conclusion that her sister was going crazy over someone that barely cared. With her round orbs of green, she convinced the girl back over, where she practically collapsed into her sister's lap, shivering. Crazy. Oh, was she going crazy.

"I feel free," Éponine murmured after a moment, her head being stroked lazily by a slightly bored Azelma. "Free. Free? Can you imagine?"

"Some nights."


	2. Some Nights

**Bonjour, mes amis! I do hope you were looking forward to this. You probably were not, but we can't all be choosers, eh? Still looking for a Beta. You don't even have to be registered. I just need some help.**

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His head fell upon the book in a slow, jerky motion, as if someone was repeatedly pressing pause on his desire to sleep. Almost for a moment, it seemed that his nose would touch the ink-spread pages, smudging the writing that he had spent ages trying to correct. It bounced upwards quickly, however, and frosty oceans stared at his studies, trying to figure out how they existed. His mind couldn't seem to comprehend that he had written them a few hours earlier, directly after the meeting with his friends. No, it almost believed that the paper booklet belonged to someone different. Perhaps it was Pontmercy's. The man was always dropping his stuff.

Grunting, the male shook out his thick curls, attempting to summon up the courage to look over what notes he had bothered to take. They barely passed for legible, in all actuality, and he supposed he'd have to fix it later, when he had more time. If he had time, that was.

Without even gazing outside, the student was certain it was well past midnight, and nearing morning at every minute. If he managed to get some sleep, then he would have to awake early to review what was completed, in order to turn it in for perfect marks. Now, if he stayed awake, he could fix everything, but would risk falling into a nap during his classes that day.

He wasn't entirely sure that his professors would enjoy that, nor did he suspect that Courfeyrac would enjoy lugging him about the campus to each and every lecture. But the words, they seemed so incorrect!

"Just my luck," came the simple words, the three syllables hitting the air in a sharp tone. It wasn't fair, not at all. He had worked so hard. And yet… Grantaire was able to convince him to drink something with the rest of the Amis. A few glasses of wine alone had mucked up his initially brilliant thesis, and after the long, lengthy day, all was lost. "Just. My. Luck."

At least he did not spill anything onto the papers.

"Damn."

Well, that had been thought too soon. His arm caught the edge of his coffee cup, which apparently had been placed there by one of his kinder friends, who had to have felt guilty that they left him at the Café Musain on his own. The dark liquid immediately took form on his paper, soaking up the words that he had slightly thought about. Curses galore passed from his marble lips, and as he was attempting to wipe it off, a dark figure morphed into the room.

"Bonjour, Apollo," Grantaire spoke calmly, his words slurred in a delicate sort of way. His friend, or, rather, leader, lifted a brow from his station, still trying to fix the essay that was now a murky brown.

Silence followed, where the drunkard sauntered over to offer a bit of help, until Enjolras finally spoke. "Winecask. Why are you up so late?"

The man shifted slightly as he worked, mopping up the spill with his handkerchief until a correct response could be given. "I brought you coffee," he began. The man next to him immediately started. For what reason did the cynic feel the need to be kind? "And I was about to rouse you- you had fallen asleep, for a little while."

Strange. He couldn't exactly recall taking a short nap, but it wouldn't shock him. He hadn't planned on being drunk that night, had he? Already, a hangover could be felt. Might as well add that to the list of things he hadn't expected.

"I was not aware of that. Thank you, Grantaire."

It was now the other man's turn to be completely and utterly shocked. He got both thanks and his name? Was it Christmas already? His eyes must have shown that, for his friend merely lifted a brow, and returned to scooping up the remains of his soggy paper.

"I do not suppose you'd like this, would you?" R then murmured, and shuffled to the other side of the room, handing his confused friend a much neater stack of paper. "To add it to that stack. I am not sure why you want both Bossuet's paper and yours, though. Do you mind explaining to a poor, drunk man?"

His brows creased together, and the wrinkles made up for each and every time he wished to smack himself upside the head. Of course it was not his! The handwriting was sloppy, the paper barely lined. Why would it be his? Now, the manuscript passed to him, it was obviously Antoine Enjolras' work. Neat, tidy, and perfect. The marble man let out a puff of air, and gazed towards the slated orbs, trying to place the final statement instead of continuing the conversation of his confusion. "You are not drunk, are you?"

Although he now realized exactly what had occurred with the essays, the art student continued to scrape up their unlucky companion's paper, as if it never occurred to him that the marble man was finally incorrect. "No. It is too early."

That, of course, was a lie. It was never too early for him to drink! But someone had to be in charge of Enjolras- he who rarely consumed alcohol, as it hindered his speeches, he who had finally got drunk, attempting to drown his sorrows in a bottle. This Dionysus was certainly not going to allow his Apollo to traipse down the same path as he did. This man was a doll, much too naïve. A child in the face of Paris, of France.

"Early?" The man scoffed. "What is the matter with you? Are you ill?"

Concern. There was almost concern laced within the man's words, and that was enough for Grantaire. He then attempted, in a voice cracked with emotion, why he didn't drink that night. "Some nights I stay up, cashing in my bad luck. Some nights I call it a draw."

There seemed to be a slight amount of confusion towards this statement, which was then explained in an equally calm tone. "Enjolras, I sometimes find that it is easier to let my bad experiences go. Drinking does not always help, does it?"

His sweet, innocent angel nodded in understanding, and with the grace of a poet, responded similar. "Some nights I wish that my lips could build a castle." Ah, the speeches. The brilliant, glorious speeches. The light often framed him perfectly when he spoke, and the student often wanted to paint him in his glory. "Some nights I wish they'd just fall off."

His back was patted by shaking hands, and a new cup of coffee was fetched. After a while, the pair of them sat, attempting to work on what was exactly going on. Bonding? Strange. But they did nothing to change the words so eagerly falling past each other's lips, the simple discussion prized by both.

"But you still wake up," the man murmured to the drunk, after the latter explained why he drank. "And you still see the ghost…"

He nodded, and twisted his fingers together. Oh, did he ever see the ghost of his past. Such innocence had followed Laurent Grantaire, who had once lived within the slums with his younger sister and greedy mother. No, he had not come from money, like the rest of them. Somehow, they had fallen upon a bit of luck, and the son was sent off to school. At first, it was pleasant. He learned some, he played around some. Then, the letters stopped coming. Odette, his younger sister, no longer sent him messages of her life. Their mother, too, ceased to allow his return home.

Their deaths hit him hard.

The money, of course, was supposed to stop coming. And yet, he was adopted into another family by a classmate, who then died of cholera. Alone. Oh, he was all alone. "I'm still not sure what I stand for."

It was so pleading, so careful. _Make me believe._ It would not work. It never did. And yet, that did not bother either of them. They spoke, they chattered. And the cynic slowly unfolded from his mystery land, while the marble leader began to lose control of his life.

* * *

The centre, brimming with radiance, was finally stuck. His cheek colour had taken on a rather sickly shade of grey, which only seemed to be accented by the black waistcoat he was wearing. Death, that was what the man looked like. He felt similar, as well. Barely alive, barely living.

He went to fetch Marius early in the morning, the clock barely chiming six as he knocked on the door of the Gorbeau House. It was routine, nothing more than the daily grind that was beginning to shred the cheerful man's bubbly attitude. Having excitement was much harder when there was little reason to be joyous.

His hand was poised directly over the door, where he lazily smacked against the worn wood. With this motion came the exhausted lowering of his thick lashes, the dandy shutting everything surrounding him off. This required no effort, thank goodness, because almost all of his strength for the day had been wasted on knocking. So he stood, wobbling on two feet, praying that his closest friend was actually ready to leave.

A thin gamine answered the door, cheeks smudged with grime of the past month. There was a scent floating off her sickly skin, which was even paler than his own, and it was all that Courfeyrac could do to keep himself stationary. She was still a lady, was she not?

"Yes?"

It took a few moments for him to respond, of course, having forced his gaze not to rove down her body. His blue orbs did, however, flick towards the rat nest that she managed to call her hair. The locks were tangled beyond belief, sticking out in strange directions. She must have been sleeping, or doing an activity involving a bed. _That _was how disoriented she appeared.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle, but is Monsieur Marius about?" he yawned out, the words popping between the stretched breath. For a moment, the girl looked startled, almost more than she already was. From behind her there was a shifting noise, the sounds of a grumbling male, and the student actually thought she _had _been engaged in... Bedroom activities.

In all honesty, it wasn't that which brought a blush to his cheeks. No, he had done those things too many times to be embarrassed by that. This was, however, the first time meeting the young woman, and she had answered the door looking flushed!

The female quirked a brow, and from the background he heard, "Éponine, who is out there?"

Though his blush deepened, the male stood still, until he heard her words, "Nobody of interest, Papa. Just a little cow away from his herd. Rustled me from sleep just to ask a silly question."

A cow? He was a cow? With a furrowed brow, he shifted positions, glaring at the gamine. Though he was slightly confused, he was positive that calling him a 'cow' was not supposed to be a compliment. Without another word, his lips curled into a frown, attempting to hurl out a great deal of curses, half dealing with her hair and other uncombed features. The rest had something to do with her compromising state, for he truly believed she was doing _something _with _someone_, despite her innocent statement.

"It was not a silly question, you-" Courfeyrac began angrily, only to find that the girl had stepped out of her room, very close to him. Much too close. He attempted to back off, though could barely drag his feet as he stifled another yawn. His words trailed off, though it was fine, because she picked them up, gesturing to the door next to them.

"Bonjour, Monsieur de Courfeyrac." Eyes glared at her, though he winced properly at his title. "Now, can you not remember what door is your friend's? Or did you just wish to see me, little ol' Éponine?"

He was slightly shocked, at this point, and twisted his fingers together. Yes, now that he looked at her, he could see clearly who she was. The little Thénardier girl, the one that trailed around Marius. How much she had changed, in a few days. Her hollow eyes seemed to be radiating light, and cheeks were a little rosier, which he had to admit, seemed to suit her much more than the depressed state she was often in. Almost absently, he wondered if she was with Pontmercy, had become his mistress.

It took a lot to gather his thoughts. "I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I am just… tired."

She shifted slightly, and stepped back, knocking on his friend's door as they continued their conversation. "Tired? Well… Oh, Monsieur. I am not a 'Mademoiselle'. Just Éponine will do," the gamine murmured, and stared at the wood with a rather perturbed look. "Is Marius always late?"

"Usually," the student stated with a slight laugh, slowly finding a reason to be cheery once more. This 'shadow' was much more fun when she was happy… Until, of course, he realized that she did not seem to be infatuated with his friend, nor did she seem to care that he was off once more. There was no letter within her palm, awaiting delivery. "Though I do not recall you noting that before, Éponine."

She parted her lips to speak, but at that very moment, the Amis in question tripped past his doorway, all aglow. "Good morning, 'Ponine! And Courfeyrac, I do apologize for my tardiness. I was merely gazing in awe at this kerchief, the one that the girl in the park had!"

Oh, yes. The mystery girl, the angel that the dewy-eyed male claimed to be in love with. The centre twisted his eyes to find his acquaintance's reaction, but found her unchanged, if not a little perturbed. "Good God, Marius! You do not even know her name!"

That did not bother Pontmercy, who continued to speak of her glory as the trio exited the building. Unbeknownst to them, they had a little tail, who made himself known during the love-struck male's continuation of his explanation.

"Ah, but she is the light! Her beauty has struck me like an arrow, with which I am wounded! I need her words to heal me! I-"

"Salut, Courfeyrac! An' Éponine, too! But who's he, my friend? The one speakin' o' love?"

It was Gavroche, in his ragged glory, standing tall in the shadow of the three. His eldest sister laughed brightly, and swept the child forward, pressing a kiss to both cheeks before presenting a piece of bread. To the gamin, this was no different to normal-he had not seen her since before she met Marius- and he proceeded to shove the food down his throat, clapping his best friend on the back.

"Gav!" the student exclaimed, directly as Marius murmured, "By God! Have I not yet introduced the pair of you?"

Not wishing to state that they already made themselves known to one another, the pair shrugged, and their friend proceeded to 'introduce'.

"Mademoiselle 'Ponine, this is Monsieur Courfeyrac, who you might recognize from the meetings you often accompany me to. Monsieur Courfeyrac, may I introduce you to Mademoiselle 'Ponine, who happens to be my very close friend."

Ah. Not his mistress, then. Courfeyrac noted this in his thoughts, as well as how Éponine bristled at what he assumed was a nickname. As Marius continued to introduce himself to the young boy standing below them, he gazed at the girl, and asked, "Do you mind the shortened version?"

"It is not a nickname," she laughed out, and placed her hand on his arm in a gentle way. "He does not know my real name, Monsieur, for he cannot seem to recall I am a real person. I am but a doll to him."

He blinked repeatedly, and found himself shocked, unaware that his friend could even do such a thing to the fine, charming girl. "I am sorry, Mademoiselle. I shall attempt to fix that. Will that be better?"

She flashed her brilliant smile, and shrugged, before dropping her arm. "It does not matter to me," the girl insisted. "Because I do not care any longer."

For some reason, Courfeyrac found himself grinning too, as if it was brilliant that she felt absolutely nothing for Pontmercy. His hand brushed against hers (God! Was he flirting with her?) as they continued their trek, and somehow he managed to hold a conversation with the girl.

It was very strange, and somehow upon the topic of love, which the Bonapartist brought up. "Love can heal all!"

"Non, that is medicine, Marius," the other student countered, which Éponine immediately backed up. Gavroche, as always, was on her side, and the trio stood above the outsider, grinning.

"Non! Ask Jehan! And you, Monsieur Lady-A-Day, you should know as well!"

This was enough for the gamine. "This is it, boys!" Her arms crossed, rustling the thin fabric of her blouse. "This is war!"

* * *

Perhaps an hour later, after seeing both the Mademoiselle and her reluctant charge off at the Elephant, Monsieurs Marius and Courfeyrac caught up with the much quicker walking Enjolras and Grantaire. Their greetings, rushed and breathless, were met with raised brows and snickers, to which the others blinked back, flustered. There was a moment of silence, then, where all regarded each other with suspicion, until the drunkard exclaimed, "Mon Dieu! What have the pair of you gotten into?!"

At first, neither could part their lips to respond. What gave away their most recent adventures, as well as the escapade that had nearly ensued? Did bright eyes display exactly what they felt? Had someone been able to see the amusement in Marius' orbs, or the confusion streaking through his companion's? Had the latter's nose been streaked with grime, from when he finally kissed the giggling gamine's hand in farewell? No, for he had checked in a shop window. The dandy was sure of it.

"How on Earth did you know? Was it the shirt! Pontmercy, I told you I should not have worn this today! I warned you of the outcome, I know I did! The ladies shall not swoon, said I, and our friends shall be suspicious!"

Their leader's lips twitched into a brilliant smile, and he clapped a hand along his cheery friend's shoulder. Oh, he could tell. Once the solemn male's mood instantly blossomed into something much more agreeable, even though he only was able to hear a few words of it, one was able to tell that something had happened. Now it was only a matter of figuring out what had changed his mood so!

"Marius has ceased babbling, and you seem to be in awe," announced the other student, catching the exact words threatening to pour past the statue's mouth. "The Marble Man just wants to know. As do I."

"It was nothing. There seems to be a war threatened, is all, by Mademoiselle Éponine."

That seemed to catch all by surprise, including the one that seemed to know her best. The youngest law student was simply ashamed to realize the correct pronunciation of her name, and the others were agog at even the simple statement. At first, none could recall who the young 'Mademoiselle' was, and supposed that she happened to be a new lady of their friends.

(The fact that they got her name was something of a delight, too, for he never seemed to tote them about for more than a week. This must be something larger than usual!)

Quick to respond to their slacked faces, both of the storytellers attempted to explain that she was not one of Courfeyrac's girls, but lived right next to Pontmercy himself. However, everyone saw the way how hasty they were to down the idea of him having her as a Mistress, and as they separated for the day (Grantaire for his classes, Pontmercy with the younger students, and the last two together), Enjolras decided that it was the perfect time to badger his friend about it.

They walked at the same pace, nearing the courtyard with easy breaths shared. While running a hand through his blonde locks, the taller bourgeoisie dipped his head in acknowledgement to those they passed, though his eyes were locked upon the old brick building that held their class. Almost absently, Courfeyrac flashed his bright grin, and, to his friend's amusement, checked his appearance in one of the passing windows.

"What?"

Blue eyes crackled with laughter, but marble held back a grin, simply replying in a solemn tone, "Did you manage to finish your assignment without being distracted by the _belle filles_?"

Even though it had nothing to do with what was going on, and certainly had nothing to do with the conversation threatening to dance into the air, it was welcomed.

The man displayed his notes with a proud little shrug, pointing out what he felt were excellent points. His prompt, which had dealt with certain criminal activities, was mostly based off of the unfair punishments given. A convict, who had stolen a loaf of bread, had been in prison for nineteen years! Most of the essay consisted of his ranting, however pleasant, and the rest held suggestions. His leader found this grand, and commented upon it as they went to turn it in, and sit at a round table for their lecture.

His fingers drummed along the wood as they sat, waiting for a teacher that was tardy all too often. Others took the opportunity as a time to finish what they had not written, but the two of Les Amis de l'abaissé were simply sitting in absolute silence, the unspoken words floating between them. Oh, Enjolras could instantly tell that he was beginning to feel something for this 'Mademoiselle Éponine', though he was sure they had only just met. And the 'Centre', who sat there in his own thoughts, was quite aware there was something different ensuing between Grantaire and he. It simply took a distraction to get them to admit it.

Somehow, one of their fellow students, a Monsieur Dommage, had knocked over a very large pile of papers, and as his neighbours swung their legs around to help him, the pair leaned their heads in together, as if conspiring.

"What are we waiting for?" the blonde murmured in question, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He hadn't been the most courageous boy, and even now, with his revolution, this was a ridiculous idea. "Why don't we break the rules already?"

Courfeyrac blinked, and he felt a bead of sweat drip down his spine, as they both shrugged. No, it would not work, nor would it make sense. Other things came first, yes?

"I was not one to believe the hype… Are you truly telling me something has blossomed?"

There was neither confirmation nor denial. Seconds ticked into minutes, and finally, their instructor entered with an abrupt shout, already starting the lesson. Not a moment was left for response, and both flailed about for writing instruments, taking notes on spare pieces of parchment.

Moments of silence passed between the pair, much like before, and finally, in a soft tone, the dandy spoke. "No… No, when we see stars, that's all they are."

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**Well, that's it guys, that is all- five minutes in and I'm bored again... Sorry it does not include most of the song. Roll with it. Please do review, and thank you all for the follows!**

**~ Fai**


	3. We Are Young

**Sorry, loves. I'm late. This was a hard one to pull out of my arse. Next should be easier.**

**La Patron-Minette: Oh. My. Gosh. I love your stories so much! This is a complete honour for you to review and be reading what I've written. Honestly. I'm amazed. Yes, it is an Epfeyrac story! They're very close to becoming my OTP.**

**HermsP: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Here, have one of my now-favorite chapters. **

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_**We Are Young**_

* * *

Éponine, slightly disgruntled at being deposited at the Café Musain, leaned back against the gritty wall of the establishment, her soiled locks clinging to the brick. A smile was somehow plastered upon her face, and she leaned upon her younger brother, who had also been left behind. It was a picturesque moment, one that an artist would strive to create. Their ragged heads were connected to the point that you could barely tell when one's filth ceased and the second's began, and hands intertwined in such a familiar way that you could forget they were actually two separate beasts, not just one overlarge gamin/gamine. It was in this way that a conversation was held; babbling and cackling argot mixing with relatively proper wording.

"Where'n the world 'ave ya been, Gavroche?" the elder asked, her voice a flurry of concern and confusion. She was still flustered from Monsieur de Courfeyrac's final good-bye, where flesh and lips met in a sweet farewell. That certainly wasn't something she was used to, not with Marius, or even her immediate family. No, they usually sent her on her way, errands in hand.

As if he sensed her confusion, the boy winked, and tilted his head upwards to observe her with such casual curiosity that his mischievous look merely appeared to be thoughtful. "Ah, jus' been 'round, _'Ponine_."

Her hand rose to smack him upside the head, with fingers curling around the thickly matted curls to continue the slight pain. "Stop it, you. It wasn' a nickname, no matter 'ow much ya want it t'be!"

He shifted slightly, and the dirt separated, the tiny boy weaselling into the shadows that surrounded the meeting spot of the revolutionists. There was silence, and then, in his cheeky little way, the urchin announced, "Nah. I'd prefer if ya were wif Courf'. This Marius fellow's a li'l daft, yeah?"

In such a pretty way, she blushed, so that it was almost grander than any lady one could meet. Such a shame she was discarded among the gravelled cobblestones, with only pretend dandies to make her nights easy.

And what nights they were! The young woman rubbed her thigh gently as she pursued her tiny friend, who had slipped among the street urchins in an eager manner. Though they were not often gentle with her, the past few days had been horrid, with bruises stretching around her body like blankets. Even Montparnasse, her greatest friend, had scratched up the thin skin that managed to cover her bones. It didn't seem to be very deep, but she had not actually looked. No, it was better to be ignorant and happy.

"Gav!" the girl exclaimed, doubling over in pain.

Oh, they must have been deep. She was flailing about, arms attempting to cling onto something by her side. Luckily, it was only a grisette, or, as she peeked closer, one of the other prostitutes. Upon even further inspection, it was another of her group, the girls that only were sent to the docks once in a while. Montparnasse's little toys.

The girl, who went by Sylvie, shifted slightly, attempted to pry the scrambling Éponine off of her person. She almost attacked, judging by her look, until, "How are your nights?" managed to dart past her rosy lips.

"Well, I suppose." Her knee was gestured to, a shrug displaying how little she ultimately cared about the bruises. "And you?"

Her eyes peeked down, and she shrugged slightly, though a hand crept towards her abdominal region. "Gotta see one o' those speshul ladies. Been feelin' pretty down."

All she could do was nod, in the same way that she did every third night. That, and link her arm within the other female's, attempting a jolly grin to push them through the preparations. The two of them went off, not at all concerned with the gamin they had forgotten, who was off in his own world.

The trembling regions of their fingertips brushed against each other in a way of wavering care, and as the grand building loomed over the thin young women, the touch became more soothing than one could imagine. No matter how many times one managed to enter into the grounds of the old manor, which was completely and utterly disgusting, though big, it was a nightmare come true.

It had been donated by some large aristocrat, who decided that his whores were much too dirty for his liking. Though it was intended to be some sort of wash-house, use being free, it had morphed into a sort of prison. The girls were only permitted a bath if they serviced someone _in _the household, and the pimps, they did nothing about it. That was why Éponine bothered to beg her father for use of their water, so that she could 'earn more'.

She never told him that the only price for a luxurious bath was her dignity.

After Sylvie drifted off into the silky regions of the bathrooms, the other gamine shoved herself towards Montparnasse's rooms, practically throwing herself with the effort to get there. If he was alone, they'd be able to have a sweet conversation or two, before he sold her for the night and drifted off to Patron Minette's better offerings.

The hallway that she darted along was long, and thick, with creamy wallpaper that seemed to be painted with flowers. If one looked closer, however, they'd spot rather crude differences, with people instead being the subject. It always made her shudder, the way that the limbs were depicted, cut from their body. Hell, she supposed, was the topic. Her own personal Hell.

His door was oak, and red, which shook as her hands smacked against it before allowing her in. For a few moments, she lingered in the doorway, and, thinking against it, swept into the room.

Luckily, he was not with a customer.

"Where have _you _been?"

Unluckily, he was in a rotten mood.

With a little flourish of her hips, the female slipped closer, sliding into the open bench that was across from the table. "Give me a second, I… I need to get my story straight."

Though she winked, and leaned closer, his fists clenched, and it was all she could do to slide back gently. "My friends are in the back," he gestured, snarling. "With prices higher than your Pontmercy's economical state. They've got money, Ninny, which I was willing to split fairly with you, until this stunt was pulled!"

"I didn' mean t'be late, 'Parnasse!"

He didn't care, sadly, but threw her head back, hands reaching for the extra set of rouge and powder he kept for special occasions. In other words, the supplies that he used on Éponine when she was late.

The girl plaited her hair around her head after receiving word of their large money. Now, she didn't think they were expecting something perfect, but looking well-bred was probably going to give her a few extra tips. "How many are there?" She continued to straighten her clothing, fixing the tears and cleaning her face with a rag. He placed the powder around her face and chest as she asked, and while dipping a brush to make her lips a bit redder, he spoke.

"One," the dandy murmured. "Though he paid the price of three."

Smacking her lips, the astonished 'Ninny' stood, gazing at herself in the mirror. "Damn. How rich is he?"

"Rich enough for me, love." He pressed a kiss to the red, and smacked her on the bottom as she snuck out, towards the back room. "Rich enough for the two of us."

Her eyes rolled, and as she sauntered into the low-lit room, her lashes closed, the rules were stated, "And don't you think this is anything more, 'cause my lover, he's waitin' for me, jus' back at the bar."

The hunched over figure, obviously one of the ratty bourgeois boys, shrugged. "So's mine, and my seats been saved by a man with a cigar."

Snorting, Éponine shifted her eyes up, attempting to peer through the hazy fog. She'd certainly make sure to tell the lady, then, that her husband or whatever was off with a whore.

But then she looked up.

* * *

Courfeyrac was having a horrid day. No, that was an understatement. His day was the embodiment of cruel punishment, as his essay, which he had toiled endlessly over, had been decreed a 'Complete and Utter Failure' by the instructor. It was, as the man had stated, much too biased for him to do something about, and missed the goal by a long-shot. Now, Enjolras' paper was deemed perfect, and a 'treat to read'.

And he was having such a wonderful morning.

The grin that he had struggled with danced downwards, and he disappeared behind a mass of dark curls, retreating into himself for the remainder of the lesson. His notes seemed lacklustre, which his friend seemed to have noticed. In the midst of a powerful lecture that came later on in the day, the sleepy revolutionary leader took the time to flick a spare piece of parchment towards the other young man. At first, he was barely rustled from the action of rubbing ink all along his page, until prodding forced him to shove down the pen in order to take the note.

_Is everything alright, mon ami? What did Professor Mouchard need with you?_

_**Something about my failing grade, **_he wrote back with a frown, and shoved back the paper. Once more, scribbling words took up his time, until…

_But Courfeyrac! You cannot be failing! _

_**Ah, but I am. Such a shame, yeah?**_

_What do you think- _There, such an unreadable word sat- _will think of it?_

_**We are speaking of her already? I only asked for a dinner during the last break, and it was through a chain-linked fence!**_

_But the Mademoiselle is so well-off, and a failing grade!_

_**Enjolras, I get it.**_

Here, the paper was stabbed so vehemently that there was a hole, and a reprimand spoken by the teacher that had just observed his reaction. Resisting the urge to curse loudly, Courfeyrac simply nodded, and immediately returned to day-dreaming.

The Mademoiselle, or, rather, Mademoiselle Chaput, belonged to the highest class of bourgeois, and had taken a shine to the young student for some strange reason. Perhaps it was his smile, or his charm, but the woman simply came to the same spot, day upon day, and waited for a conversation to be struck up. Even before that, too, she had clung to Enjolras, pleading to be introduced. His parents, when they bothered to write, often spoke of the family highly. Now, they would be proud of his 'good match'.

He certainly wasn't.

There was nothing interesting about her, not the way that she talked, not the way that she acted. Not even the sweet way that she repeatedly gave him a letter with her address, stating, "I know I gave it to you months ago, Monsieur," seemed to be any different than other girls. She was just another flittering flower on his path.

"It is strange, Monsieur de Courfeyrac…"

Sharply turning to face his friend, the male glared, crossing his arms. "That my luck is worse than Bossuet's?"

"No… But I find it odd that the girl, the one you've ignored time after time, is all of a sudden in your realm of love, and her innocent name has the same sound as the one you are pining after!"

Émilie, Éponine. Yes, it seemed to be close, but… "I am not pining after Mademoiselle Jondrette!"

"I know you are trying to forget," the leader murmured, and extended an arm to pat the centre on the back. They both regarded each other after that, the older with an air of concern, the younger with rage evident upon his tongue. He seemed to be on the verge of an explosion, which finally was absorbed into the air at his subtle twitching.

By then, they were sitting within one of the parks, awaiting the young Mademoiselle. She was, to the dismay of the pair, late, and Enjolras intended on getting to the Musain early. Too bad for him, it seemed. There was a scuffle, earlier, and he felt the need to right that.

Such an honourable man… But Grantaire was not going to accept that, not when he had promised to be there. _They _had things to sort out as well.

The young woman arrived in a flurry of packages and trinkets, her hand folded along a yellow umbrella. To her right stood a lady's maid, who was attempting to straighten the female up, as if the males were not within her line of sight. Dust was picked at, threads dragged off. And, after scrutinizing her, the elderly woman pushed forward her charge, and regarded the two males.

_If Enjolras did that to me, _the male thought, as he dragged himself to a standing position, forcing a smile. It came out as a grimace, but the woman did not care, as he soon found himself accompanying her to dinner, without having come up with a reason not to go.

"Will you tell me whatever is on your mind?" the girl pried, a few hours later, as they sat with fingers brushing together. He simply shrugged, for a few moments, and she watched his eyes shift with the wind. "No, I supposed as much."

"I am sorry."

It was the third time he had insisted it within the hour, and everything seemed to drag on and on, on and on. That did not bother Émilie, who had been told from birth that man is correct, and woman is subservient. Now, it would not have specifically bothered Courfeyrac, until, of course, she slyly followed him home, using all her precious, lady-like ways to cajole him into taking her. They had been discussing rather dainty things, such as her hair, but it was with her little giggle that he noticed how she was acting.

Stupid.

There was no other word than that, for all she did was wander around his statements, testing them to see what answer was correct. What was her favourite colour? Not brown, because, as he mentioned before, he hated finding himself dirty. No, she told him a soft, perfect pink. Disgusting. When he asked her of her opinion on the poor, she grimaced, and lied through her straight, shiny teeth. Had she any siblings? Yes, she had one, because he had one. Now, the male knew for a fact that she had _three_, and it was with that statement that he made his grand exit.

"But between the drinks and subtle things, the holes in my apologies… Mademoiselle? I have forgotten that I have somewhere to be. Would you mind particularly if my good friend, Monsieur Combeferre, walked you home?"

He did not wait for her answer. If she wanted a man in charge, someone to follow, she had gotten it then. Hands grabbed hers, and led her towards the next room, where the wise pre-medical student sat, studying. They, of course, shared the floor, as neither student could really stand being on their own. After depositing her with the gentleman, and excusing himself, the man practically ran out of the room.

_I shall be trying hard to take it back._

All of it. His mistreatment of a lady, his horrid feelings that were drawing him from the revolution, from his usually carefree life… He wanted to take them all back, and throw them away.

The cobblestones were pounded from his quick steps, the breath floating back and forth from his lips in a shaky motion, trying to pump more air back in. In this manner, he continued, practically flying towards the one place that kept him from going crazy.

Not the Musain, but the 'House'.

The establishment housed many of the prostitutes that 'worked' throughout the city, and, on a horrible night such as this, it also took in a distressed revolutionary as well. That mattered little. It always held people like him; those willing to waste money for artificial love.

He struggled slightly with the door, the wood clinging to his skin as he shoved through, regretting it slightly as he did so.

Everyone regarded him with hungry eyes, and it took a bit to adjust the initial shock into something a bit more appropriate for the setting. There was a sly little smirk upon his cheek, and the mask, for that was all it was, stayed until the next creature closed in on him. "Lookin' for somethin', Monsieur? I'm sure that I have it."

Her hands travelled low, much too low for his comfort, but he only removed the fingers with a gentle laugh, winking. "I've got my own fix, ladies," he stated, flashing a brilliant grin.

Did he ever.

"But by the time the bar closes…" She gestured towards the table, and the people lurking about. "Who shall carry me home?"

He laughed, and pressed a kiss to the female's cheek. "If you warm up that spot, right next to Monsieur de Cigar, I shall return for you."

It was obvious she would not wait that long, but what the hell? His mind was too cluttered.

* * *

"Why the hell are you here?" Éponine exclaimed, growing very pale. Definitely confused, she shut the door with a _crack_, immediately turning on him with desperation. "Monsieur Courfeyrac?"

"Éponine?"

Good Lord, his luck was off today. He had been trying to keep her out of his thoughts, after realizing the absolute impossibility of her ever paying attention to him, of anything happening between them. And now she stood, dressed in thin material, right within reach, asking him a question.

While she grew white, he had to hold back the red threatening to take over his looks. With effort, he spoke again.

"Well… The night was warm, and we are young, are we not?"

Though she stepped closer, he could tell she was attempting to stay distanced, unsure if she was still going to go through with the normal customer routine. If she had to, she would, but it would only grow awkward if they ever spoke again… However, this was something enjoyable, in the slightest way.

After all, it was he who was on her mind all day, flittering in and out, as if a breeze. Her lips cracked into the slightest of smirks, and the young girl plopped herself into his lap, using the excuse of her 'job' as the best way to get what she wanted.

He froze, but responded politely, wrapping his arms around her. "But I'm cold," he heard her complain, and she was tugged closer. "Very cold."

"Then we shall set the world on fire, shall we not, Mademoiselle Éponine?"

Her lips curled downwards, which made him immediately backtrack, and explain in a hushed tone that he did not intend on making her do anything. No, he just needed company. The predicament with Mademoiselle Émilie was explained, and she smiled once more, content for the moment. At least she knew there wasn't a Mistress. To top all that, she was getting paid more than usual to sit with an acquaintance, as well as a very handsome young man.

Although her faith in him was strong, he felt that she needed proof. Settling the girl down on the bed, he moved to the other side of the room, watching. The gamine simply arched a brow, crossing her arms. His motives made sense, though she didn't require an example. Did the student think she was daft, like Marius?

"Poor _petite vache_," she crooned, and leaned her head against the scrubbed walls, the browns of her eyes skipping outwards against the pale paper. Though his heart leapt, the male refrained from walking closer, and simply arched a brow.

"A cow? Why do you keep calling me a cow, _'Ponine_?" He knew it was cruel, but sometimes, things were necessary. Anyways, a laugh only poured past her lips, something that sent his lips flapping with one of his own. "Do I look like a cow to you?"

Nodding slightly, the girl brought her knees to her chest, displaying her knickers, though Courfeyrac never seemed to notice. He saw her face, her eyes, something that barely anyone made it to.

"You see, you all look lost without your farmer watching over you! No wonder you had issues with your lady friend!"

"What lady problems? I am good with you things!" he exclaimed, crossing his arms indignantly. There was, of course, a light in his eyes, one that you could barely see.

She snorted, and he moved closer, a foot away. "I know that I am not all that you got."

For a few moments, they stared, until his feet brought him closer, the pair of them now nose to nose. What to do, what to say? Should he mention, in a flirtatious tone, that he wished she was _all _he had? No, because that was not the way to woo this girl. He didn't want her swooning into his arms, dainty and kind. He wanted a fight; he wanted her as she was.

"I wish that I…"

She interrupted with, "Were less of a cow?" in a soft tone, which immediately brought the two of them into fits of laughter. Montparnasse, who was sitting outside, blinked in confusion, but shrugged, finding himself drawn back to the counting of money.

"You are the cow, Mademoiselle! You are here, with me, while your 'lover' pays you to do such!"

The girl blinked, and sniffed, standing so that the space between them was closed. "'Parnasse is _not _my lover, an' I warn ya, Mo'sieur, ya better not say tha' again. I say tha' so I don' _die_."

Courfeyrac flinched, and stared down at her, lifting her chin. So she was unattached? Without strings? "Oh."

"Oh," she mocked, and twisted a curl within her fingertips. "Oh."

"Let us find a better way to fall apart, next time."

She laughed, and the tiny space closed, neither shocked with the occurrence. After a moment, he whispered to her, in a gentle tone, "Tonight, we are young, unburdened."

"Set the world on fire, then, Monsieur. My world."


	4. Carry On

**I will now begin to hold my comments on each selection to the end of the chapter. Enjoy.**

* * *

_**Carry On**_

* * *

They should have known that love was not easily kept.

He was gone before morning came, though the two of them had lain next to each other, breaths relatively even. Nothing too dramatic had occurred, only a few kisses with the addition of a steamy feeling of fingers on flesh. It was he who made sure that it stayed just that, and her who obliged, though a bit irritated with the outcome. But this changed with the final words, his teeth grazing her ear before settling in the crook of her neck.

He had awoken like that, in the middle of the night, eyes fluttering slightly. There was a brief second of confusion, which led him to question what _exactly _had occurred, yet the thought simply faded away. She looked so peaceful, in slumber. An angel that had fallen, maybe, when her breath swept in and out, gathering in the air.

It almost made him reluctant to abandon her, and slip out the back way. Montparnasse, who was still sitting, counting out the money, barely lifted a brow at the sudden exit. He, of course, assumed that Éponine had done her duty, and the man was done with her. However, he twitched slightly when the dandy put a finger to his lips, meaning for his absence not to be noted.

That, in itself, was strange.

But 'Parnasse was not in a mood to delve into the mystery, and simply batted at the remaining francs, adding them to the pile. A few slipped to the floor, and as he reached down to get them, the other male darted outside the room, slamming shut the door.

He was gone.

Moments passed, as he stood knee-deep in a puddle, letting the new rain fall upon his shrugged shoulders, thinking of exactly why he had shoved himself into such a situation. The girl was brilliant, yes, and he had a strange and sudden desire for her, but there was something he was forgetting. Something that would break them both.

Perhaps it was the upcoming revolution, the one he had helped plan for the past few months. It could also have been the knowledge that, despite their initial attempts, neither would be able to love. It was impossible, and he knew it. Courfeyrac himself only fell in what he labelled _lust_, not the unfamiliar thought of having someone who cared no matter what. And he knew that it was strange for the gamine, too. She recently thought she was in love with Marius, and soon after, was falling in with him!

Now, the student was quite aware of his notorious history for breaking young women's hearts. Normally, he wouldn't be shocked, nor would care, but there was something.

That's what he decided it was.

Something.

_When you're lost and alone, and you're sinking like a storm…_

His cherubic face turned towards the sky, lips parting to let little drops of fluid fall into his parched lips. As if they were the tears of heaven, raindrops tickled his cheeks, and although they would normally rustle up a grin, nothing appeared. There was just a cloud of desperation that touched his brown, causing it to furrow. A storm, both inside and out, rustled his curls, and there was only one thought on his mind.

Éponine.

She would be so torn up at his disappearance, or so he thought. Perhaps she would even rage at Montparnasse, or throw herself into another customer's arms. Maybe she didn't care, and only took him up on his words due to a misery over Marius. That wouldn't shock him, not entirely. The girl used to be very attached to his closest friend.

"If they were to end up together, as long as it made her happy, I would attend the wedding," the man mused aloud, still thinking that she held some sort of emotion over the man. For some reason, her initial words mentioning the end of her romantic interest in Pontmercy meant nothing. She was a thief, she was a sneak, and she was brilliant. "I would be glad, for her sake."

There was a pause, where he looked at the cobblestones with such melancholy that he seemed to be dreaming, no better than Jehan when attempting to compose a poem. It was with this same look that he wrapped his arms around himself, attempting to hold close the image of Éponine that was beginning to fade away.

Now, if one was to ask what was going inside his mind, they would have been met with such a stony stare that they would have forgotten the initial question. Why? Because Monsieur de Courfeyrac had entirely no clue what was ensuing. There was logic in his leaving (for he did not wish to heart her heart), but there was depression in his absence. What was he to do? Oh, Lord, what was he to say?

"Are you lost, Monsieur?" a purring voice asked, and he found himself suddenly startled by a young blonde, who was dressed in tattered rags. There was something innocent in those words, the ones that attempted to lure him into the darkness. Not a whore, surely not a whore. However, he wasn't surprised to see two other shadows lurking behind her, one a gamin, the other a familiar sight.

Jehan, the poet, was looking rather dazed, his eyes shifting every so often. However, he did not seem to be injured. Just confused.

The dandy could understand _that _emotion, for he himself had lost track of the winding pathways he had took, and was now standing somewhere in the city, cold, alone, and very, very sad.

But there was a sort of placid view beneath the outward confusion? Could it very well be placed towards him, Courfeyrac?

No, no, that was silly. Nothing was wrong with him.

"Courfeyrac, what in the world are you doing in this part of town?"

After gulping down the shouts of accusations, the man shrugged, straightening his cravat. "I may ask the same of you, Prouvaire. Is it not to damp and sharp for you?"

That brought a smirk to the lips of the vixen that had spoken first, her teeth cracked and yellow in the grim light of the early morning. Perhaps it was the barely setting moon that showed her in such a way, so different, so frightening. A ghost, she might have been, with her eyelashes pale and barely existent.

With her smile, Jehan put an arm around her, pulling close the skin-and-bones with the words of a teasing gamin behind them.

Gavroche.

Of course it was he. If it was anyone else, the man would have been shocked, for what other gamin had the guts to explore the darkness with naught but his wits?

"Now, now, 'Zelma, be nice to Courf. 'e happens t'be a very good friend, really. I promise," the child announced, and, still grinning, squeezed past the blushing male and his giggling girl. After a moment, he pushed them further into the darkness, and took the other man away, leading him by the elbow. "Ya gotta be careful, 'cause they don't like bein' interrupted."

As this was explained, Courfeyrac's understanding grew as well. Jehan had a lady love. Jehan _liked _a street rat, just like he did. If Jehan could do it, why couldn't he?

"She'll even curse ya, if she wants. 'Zelma knows things like that."

He ignored Gavroche's babble, now completely in tune with his thoughts.

_She'll wake up, alone. I might find her with a bottle of wine, just drinking away everything. Like Grantaire. _

The poor boy was still talking, leading the dandy back the way he had come, but taking a few extra rights. They were suddenly along a winding road, one that he was certainly unsure of. But he was with a street rat, and they always knew what was going on, and what needed to happen. Certain of his safety, or simple survival, he did not protest, especially when he began to recognize the roads. They were close to the Musain, and were very close to the Corinth. That was good. Yes, that was good.

Making a mental note to mention it to Grantaire, who would then tell Enjolras, the male thanked his friend with a few sous, shoving himself inside.

* * *

"How much for the girly?"

She was empty. Empty, empty, empty. The bleak fortune of future swept across her pale features, which now were prominently appearing as hideous as a dog's. With this wiped across her brow, plainly spoken, the girl was unsure as to why anyone would even consider purchasing her for a day, expect to make fun.

"She ain't fer sale. Some'un else owns 'er," Montparnasse announced, for once being considerate of his close friend. He could tell how wounded she was, as well as under the belief that Courfeyrac would be back for another night, and wasn't selling his damaged goods. "Gerroff. We don' need you."

The expectation for the man to falter was not fulfilled. He simply glared, and strode out of the darkness which had since covered his obviously aristocratic self. The uniform he was clothed in matched the one of the National Guard, something that the female backed away from.

Most did right to do so. Those who did not were often smacked, as he did to the slimy pimp. The assassin stumbled slightly, but soon brought out his knife, holding it to his assailant's neck. Éponine, now covering her lips in fear, was shaking rapidly, doing her best to hide behind 'Parnasse's desk.

With venom, the man spoke again, sharpening his words against the grim setting. "You will do well not to mark me, _Monsieur._" Even his niceties were cruel. "For we are after you all, watching, waiting. You will give me the girl, and I will give you your freedom. If not, you will be jailed."

Jailed…

She was thrust forward, stumbling over bare feet. Apparently, the thin bonds of friendship had been stretched too far, and such things as care were not considered in this ruthless world. Little trembles wracked her face, and it was with effort that she cleaned herself off, standing before this authority figure with as much dignity as she could muster.

As fingers wrapped around the darkened skirt, she offered him a short, timid nod, holding out her arm for him to grasp. She was expecting him to practically throw himself onto her, take her into the next room, but it was his gentle arm grip which came as a shock. This strange man had softened his steely outside, and carefully wrapped an arm about Éponine.

This, of course, only continued to unnerve her. Two different young men were showing sympathy, all in one day? What had happened to the cold, cruel world? Had it come when she was suddenly happy, to display all that she had missed when held tight by her infatuation with Marius Pontmercy? Or was it proof to her impending end?

She dared not think upon the final words, choosing instead to let her lashes lower, a look of quiet acceptance plastered across her face, which stayed as the stranger wandered through the halls, now intending to lead her outside of the relative safe-haven, out of the usual hell.

"Are you hungry?"

The gamine twisted her head to view his stony face, watching as the chiselled features bent and moved with his face. "Excuse me?" she blurted out, before immediately turning around, nervous for the outcome. A very quick apology was murmured, though she doubted he had heard it, for he was speaking once more, in a calm tone.

"I asked if you were hungry. Are you?"

Her head nodded slowly, up and down, though she clearly expected his response to her confirmation would have been something ghastly. But it was not cruel. Instead, the man brought out a biscuit, cracking it in half, and handing some to her. As tender hands curled around the treat, her eyes hooded, as if waiting for a smack to ring through her ears. It never came.

"Thank you, Monsieur," she managed to breathe through the crumbs, just as an arm draped over her waist. He was quick to get what he wanted, wasn't he? The inside-Éponine, the spit-fire who was tucked away during her job, she was resisting the urge to cringe, to smack away the hand with all the energy that she could. But the outer-gamine, the one who was used to the treatment of men with money, simply bore what was going to come. She was ready, if one could be considered ready.

By this point, they were walking in silence, and traveling along the pathway to what could have been labelled as immaculate, though obviously was otherwise. Here and there, a few prostitutes wandered, their miserable faces waxing in the early sun.

_How many are his, do ya wager? _

Daring not to answer her own question, the young woman tightened her grip on his arm, as if fearful. But it was not the fear which kept her doing such things, it was the anticipation, the apprehension that was attempting to pull her out of the things she continued to be wrapped up into. Refraining from making a candid remark, little arms tugged at his, shivers touching her body.

"Please, Monsieur, please don' hurt me!"

Her whines took on a pitiful tone, the cracked and damaged voice attempting to drag forth anyone else. But it seemed that either the other bourgeoisies cared little, or they were used to such screams. Did they not care? Did nobody care?

He certainly did not care.

His hands had continued the ragged chase, pulling her closer, both to him and to a rather suspicious door, which was standing a few feet in front of the pair. It belonged to a dramatically stable house, white and golden with riches. With claw-like fingers, he shoved her towards the looming abode, which only caused the child to dance backwards, frightened. She didn't want to go there! It wasn't fair! It wasn't fair!

And once more, he did not care. "Move, you cow!"

She had been the one calling people cows, yesterday. And now she was being purchased, and wouldn't likely make it through the night. Where was the soft man who had offered her a biscuit? Although she had only seen him for a brief second, it was something that the girl could learn to care about.

Nobody liked a monster.

And that was what this man was.

He was a monster, a ragged beast!

Éponine's breath was becoming ragged, her eyes wide with fear, while his seemed to be narrowed in lust. His shaking hands parted the door like a sea, leaving a thin opening for the pair to slip into. With effort, she did so, and his body pressed against hers as they moved. They were slipping forward as one, a reluctant pair which wanted to simply travel along their own lines, like a parallel arrangement.

The stranger slipped out from beneath her, first, before she could begin to scream that she wanted to be free. Perhaps he thought it would happen, or he had some experience with young females, but he immediately backed off, leaning against the wall of his house with crossed arms. They stood like that, for a moment, observing one another with twisted brows and confused lips. She almost expected him to fade away, and leave her alone, his face was that serious. But the man did not. He simply watched, waiting for what would happen.

Her hands slid to her shoulders, to relieve the clothing that was there.

But he steadied her, suddenly, with a single shake of his head, eyes shutting briefly. "Stop."

It was barely a croak, but it was a sound that the girl was quite content to follow. Her glistening brown orbs slipped quickly beneath full lashes, before examining the strangers face, drinking up what emotion roamed across his face.

There did not seem to be anything.

He was a calm, quiet beast, now, just an injured wolf whose prey was carefully getting away, sliding to the opposite wall. Could she make a run for it? Did she dare?

"Please, stand still, Mademoiselle," he suddenly breathed, as if sensing her tense muscles, the preparation for escape. "We have a few things we must discuss."

It was with effort that she dragged her gaze towards his suddenly careful tones, the way which he managed to carry himself despite the initial cool mien. Was it supposed to happen like this? Or had he messed up, as quickly as she? Were they both going to be in trouble, with her in jail, and him out of the National Guard?

Hoping that neither of her questions were true, the female demurely stood, shifting on her feet. To think, this time the day before, she was meeting with young Courfeyrac, the man that he was! To think, he had found her fascinating, before leaving her to fend for herself!

It was his fault that she was in this mess.

And she intended on getting back.

"'M still, then. What do ya wan'?"

His grin was something to fear, halfway between amused and evil, the points of his teeth coming down to rest on his lower lip. It was something to be frightened of, and frightened Éponine was. She almost missed his words, which were sharp, piercing and haunting.

But they helped her.

"I am Julian Marin, girl, and I will give you three things, in response to the desire for notes about the revolutionary efforts. You trade information for your life."

Ah, this Julian had come on a brilliant day. If anything, she was looking forward to trading her information for good food, as well as freedom. She deserved this much.

With a brighter mood, the female bobbed her head, and arms crossed around her chest, the familiar motion giving her warmth. With the sun crawling higher, she kicked out her heel, scuffing it along his clean floors. "Sounds good to me."

And thus began her life with the National Guard.

* * *

The giving of a speech was not a difficult action. One simply stood, their eyes heated with the passion that matched a million men, and continued to lecture their friends about each and every dilemma with society. But it was the ability to give an inspiring speech that kept Enjolras from sleep on most nights. Despite what even his closest circle thought, fully thought out bubbles of words often fell from his lips, onto a paper which was then rewritten. It was a difficult practise.

It was almost as irritating as Grantaire was.

When he thought about Grantaire (which he had been doing, quite a lot that day), he could almost compare their actions to that of the creation of his magnificent speeches. To be annoying like a child, the artist would stand, complain about something in a short, slurred tone, and sit once more on his posterior, smirking. If he found it to be the best day to decide to break the man clean in half, he would shriek towards the sky banter to every single word that was spoken.

When one thought about it, the sight was magnificent, like that of two animals finding a mate. At least, that was what Courfeyrac continued to refer to it as, despite what his two friends detested. Even Combeferre had gotten in on the joke, continually mentioning animals when the pair of them were around each other, in the nasty moods they were.

But Enjolras did not like it, not at all. And he was willing to change that, to morph his ways to the situation, and completely and utterly diffuse what Bahorel had once labelled "Sexual Tension" in his obnoxiously candid tones.

"My friends," the man began, suddenly standing from his seat at the Musain. It seemed that everyone was about, despite it being early morning. Even Courfeyrac, who he expected to be with his aristocratic date, was there, mumbling apologies to Combeferre, of all people. Unsure why his two lieutenants (despite telling them that they were his equals, they insisted he was above them) were having such a conversation, the blonde tried again. "My friends…"

Nobody was paying attention. Jehan was in a flurry over something that he had done, Marius humming to himself, and even Grantaire found himself ignoring his muse, chatting with Feuilly about the types of good, cheap wine, even though the former was able to pay for the most expensive.

"Ev'rybody! Lis'n up! Monsieur Cap'n Sir is gonna speak!"

His marble hands clapped young Gavroche on the back, thanking him in low tones for the call, though it only did a little bit of good, for his two closest friends, who were usually silent, still seemed to be in deep thoughts, Courfeyrac even having another melancholy look upon his bright face. Making note to talk about that later, the statue began to speak, deciding it was best to plough ahead. Besides, he had the train of thought, now.

Arms fell to a gentle stop around a chair, rippling biceps and triceps pulling him onto the base. Joly, of course, squealed, speaking in quick, hushed tones the dangers of doing such. But he was not afraid. He was strong, he was brave.

And he was _going _to get a word in before Grantaire interrupted him.

A pause, a breath. Then, "It is now time, my friends, to decide what cause we belong to. I know that I mentioned this last night, when certain bodies were missing, but from the moment's appearance, I must delve further into this topic. When Lamarque rises from illness, where will you stand? With the people of France, _l'abaisse _that cannot fight for themselves? Or against them, despite where you see yourself? Will you be a revolutionary, or a lover?"

They regarded him with solemn eyes, some certainly thinking the latter. It was now time to turn on the charm.

"What will do, if we choose the second? Would we stand, observing the oppression of the people, some of which being our friends? Would we watch as the Musain is closed, as well as Grantaire's Corinth? Do we simply nod our heads in shame when Feuilly, god forbid, loses his job, living only on what kindness we may sneak towards him, without him murdering us?"

He did look like murdering them, at that moment. The fan-maker was quite touchy about being mentioned in that way.

But Enjolras continued. "Do we save our people, or do we save ourselves? Do we not realize that saving the people will in turn save ourselves? But, my friends, we do not need to be saved. Our love should be one of our Patria, our love for our country. Our motherland has cared for us since our births, whether in the harshest ways or with a silver spoon, as some might say. She has nursed us into adulthood, and is waiting for us to do the same in her old age. We must rid her of the flicks and ticks which mark her person, and replace them with bandages of love and care!

"And, in turn, our eyes must turn to the sky, blessing the – "

Quickly began the interruptions made by their cynic. "Blessing the good God for our ghastly caretakers? Bless Apollo for creating such tragedies to be labelled as our life? Create a pillar of love for the good Dionysus, for allowing our terrible existences to be marked by the fruits of his loins?"

"Grantaire," the marble man warned. "Do not start like this."

"But I must! I must! You sit there, proclaiming divine rights, and continue to lecture us on our own love lives, when yours seem to rest below nothing! You tell others to do certain things, you plead for the forgiveness of others, and yet, you do not forgive! Hypocrite, which has become your title! I denounce you from marble, I beg of you to shut your lips!"

Enjolras resisted the urge to shut his lips, and press against them his own. The points were too clear, too perfect. Had he found the notes, and written little ways to contradict them?

"It is this 'love' which hinders you from your higher goal! This is not an opera, this is a revolution!"

"This is a failure, I swear to you, my friend. A failure."

He slammed his foot on the table, which shook, and all gazed upon his glory, infuriated by a drunk. "I am leaving," the man hissed, before sauntering out of the room, towards the main area which was crowded with the average dwellers, who were simply trying to get by. Grantaire managed to follow him, watching as a statue observed those who he considered his people, not the equals he claimed them to be.

"Enjolras?"

His tentative voice broke through the air, the atmosphere quiet despite the background noise. Between the pair of them, one could hear a pin drop, or perhaps the boys which are labelled 'friends' holding their ears against the door, which had since swung shut.

"You are right."

"Me? Correct? Bah," the drunk countered, pressing a hand against the other male's shoulder. "I am nothing but a joke. You attempt to lead us towards freedom, and I badger with meaningless words."

His head twisted. "Grantaire, I do not create the speeches spontaneously, and you, you can shout out the opposite statement in less time than anyone I have known. I cannot beg you for a cheat, or for magnificent. What are you?"

"The devil." It was a thoughtful statement. His orbs rolled, and he moved his hand, gazing at the ground. "I thought you made them on the spot."

"No more than a con's schemes. How do you speak like that, without notes?"

"I just like to see you angry. That's all I try to do."

Enjolras arched a brow, and Laurent Grantaire, who had been comfortable in his spot, shifted.

"Then we will keep an eye on that."

"Carry on, my friend. Carry on."

* * *

**Ha. Did you think I would let the Epfeyrac be happy for a bit? Lies! And the drama begins! **

**Please check out the Les Mis Challenge Forum, which is something I have created. Some of us don't have a tumblr, and sometimes, we just need plot bunnies. Also, if you haven't read 'Whirlwind', because it is rated M, the rating has to do with language. 'Ponine does have a tendency to curse. **


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